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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24827011">Stoic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity'>stateofintegrity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MASH (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:01:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,788</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24827011</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles does not wish to discuss his feelings. Honoria doesn’t care.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Stoic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Seeing one’s gestures mimicked to the letter by a sibling could be terrifying. Charles watched as Honoria implored a deaf heaven. She could have been auditioning for the role of Chuck Winchester III… if he could have carried off that off the shoulder Anjou pear dress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lord preserve me,” his sister said without a stutter, “from male stoicism.” Then she fixed her purple eyes on his blue ones with their tendency to shift to grey or lilac or kyanite. Those eyes of his were electric, dangerous. She wasn’t worried. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“T-These are your options. You can tell me that I will n-n-never understand because your experiences are so s-singular that I’m quite shut out from them. I won’t believe you. You can take your s-stupid s-stoic s-self into the wilderness, sit on a s-stone in the center of fast flowing water and contemplate your mortality or your in-insignificance or whatever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried to speak and she silenced him with a look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-You could be civilized and say ‘I’m not ready to talk yet’ or ‘I’m w-working through this.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What you cannot do is </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>w-wretched r-routine where you are obviously </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> fine but wish to insist that you are while acting of-offended that I care about you and t-treating me like I am presumptive or naive for giving a d-d-damn about you or wanting to help you. I am not a doctor as you are but I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> intelligent. Prior to weeks of this be-behavior, I was also compassionate. The com-compassion is running low. So make a choice, Charles. Tell me </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now </span>
  </em>
  <span>what this is and let me help you, or get the hell over it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is not easy, Honoria.”</span>
</p><p><span>“S-so I’ve noticed. Tell me anyway. Or be damned sure you know where your s-service revolver is because if your lips go white from you pressing them together </span><em><span>one</span></em> <em><span>more</span></em> <em><span>time</span></em><span>, I will shoot them off, s-so help me.” </span></p><p>
  <span>He smiled in spite of himself. “Were you always this colorful?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I ho-honed and p-perfected it during your absence. Tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Al-Alright wait here.” She returned with a piece of pretty stationary. “Sign this, p-please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had been planning this for days and got the words out without much stuttering. “A legal agreement s-stipulating that you brought what I am about to say on yourself. Also I need to practice your s-s-signature because the bank gave me static about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes widened and paled. “You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>indemnifying </span>
  </em>
  <span>yourself for a conversation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“This</span>
  </em>
  <span> conversation? Yes. Here are my g-guesses for your r-recent piss p-poor behavior: 1. you are tired of being a s-surgeon and wish to conduct sy-symphonies instead. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<ol>
<li><span> You wish to adopt a b-b-basket of kittens but are too embarrassed to do so. </span></li>
<li>
<span> Stock p-prices in kumquats and dragon fruit have simply </span><em><span>plummeted</span></em><span>. </span>
</li>
<li><span> You have decided to finally deal with the fact that you are not now nor ever have been straight. </span></li>
<li><span> Your s-stint in the army brought to the s-surface hitherto unrealized m-martial ambitions and you’re running for military dictator of a small South American country. </span></li>
<li><span> You’ve d-descended too far into the bottle and now are trying to save face. </span></li>
<li><span> You mean to turn the w-West ballroom into a bird sanctuary.” She paused for breath. </span></li>
</ol><p>
  <span>“Honoria, please. Stop. I am begging.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I hit a nerve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I do want kittens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Several kittens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I l-look forward to l-leaving them in your silk sheets with their tiny sharp feet. And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I, ah, it would seem that there is a distinct possibility that I am not, ah, straight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wanted to hug him. He was, after all, being very brave. “You think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He read the light in her eyes. “You, ah, you seem poised to continue this battle that you are, against all odds, </span>
  <em>
    <span>winning</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You have your revelation. I am exhausted. You have my signature to shop to your heart’s content. Hell, you can have the bloody bird sanctuary if you wish it (please no swans). What else do you want from me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You honestly do not listen to anything I say. C-Charles, do you r-really believe that I didn’t know? I’ve always known. What I w-want is for you to tell me what it will take to make you stop s-suffering. Don’t say kittens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“K…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will kill you, bury you in the koi pond, and spend your fortune on pictures of naked men.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Klinger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’d doubtless say Holy Toledo - I don’t think I ever heard him swear - but the sentiment is accurate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No out loud swearing… but fuck me eyes at least?” she hoped aloud. (She’d seen pictures.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such language! It is unbecoming for a young lady to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stick it on your sandwich, Charlie. Don’t you want to hear it from him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Max isn’t a lady. A classy dame, he’d say, but they aren’t the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Classy dames don’t say ‘fuck?’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They should not. Nor should you. Aren’t you supposed to be getting me kittens?” </span>
</p><p>“What are you going to do?”</p><p>
  <span>“Suffer, I expect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Un-fucking-acceptable, my love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Acceptable or no, it seems to be my lot. There is nothing, I assure you, to be done except learn to live with it. And learn not to press my lips together, I suppose.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t t-think…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head. She had seen the gesture before; this was the look of a surgeon standing over a wound and saying, “No, there is no hope. Nothing can be done.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Ch-Charles.” She went to him and held him. “I am sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled because she wasn’t sorry for giving him hell - she enjoyed it too much. “It’s alright,” he promised, lying boldly. “I will be quite well in time, I am sure of it.” But when he laid down that night, he took his friend’s name into his mouth and wished, more than anything, that he could speak it - without pain - into his dark hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The receptionist split her time and her duties between several crack surgeons. She was accustomed to being shouted for and shouted at - but this was a new one on her. Resigned, she phoned the surgeon’s office, “Doctor? Yes, I do know, sir. There’s someone to see you though. No, no I don’t believe so.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not a patient, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thought - not unless he’d changed his specialization to psychiatry… or maybe veterinary medicine! “I will, sir.” Hanging up, she told this late, odd arrival how to find Winchester’s office and gratefully went back to her magazine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winchester scarcely looked up from his notes at the soft knock. He had believed there was something in this mess that he wanted for an article, but he had either misfiled it, or the notes concerned a different patient and he was mentally conflating their cases. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Major?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His patients and any writing he might have done concerning them went quite out the window. There was only one person on the entire planet who would address him by his rank. He turned and tried to say his name but couldn’t, settling instead for being happy he hadn’t yet thrown up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought you something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please, God in whom I do not believe and have so rarely asked for intercession of even the most minor kind, let “something” be the white, lacey thing I once saw peeking out from a drawer in his tent. I realize I’m probably praying for sin, here, but you know I’ve had so little opportunity for it and you can punish me anytime. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Halfway through this very personal request, a basket was placed in his trembling hands. He folded back a loose cloth covering. Tiny eyes greeted him. Lots of them. “These are kittens.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nori said you wanted them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart sped up and crashed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nori… that is so vulgar… and so sweet. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Did she, ah, did she happen to say anything else?” His enormous hand was in the basket; he petted the baby cats with one finger and they scolded him with mews and meows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She said, well, Major, she said there might be a chance you wanted </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too.” He looked hopeful- and scared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A chance was enough for you to uproot your entire life, board a train, and come here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>ghost</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a chance would have got me on that train, Major. So, I guess the question is, do I need to go back to the station tonight, sir?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moved with great care because of the tiny cats. Once their basket was safely on the floor, he continued to be careful because he’d never had Klinger in his arms; his slight frame seemed almost as fragile as the kittens were. “Maxwell, you have seen me do a number of foolish things, chief amongst them leaving you in Korea when I longed to have you beside me. Do you really think I should be trusted alone at night with a basket of tiny lives?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile he won for this was magnificent; he knew that Klinger had heard him and, somehow, improbably, forgiven him, too. “I think you could use some help.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank God. </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>Thank. God</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>. Even if he didn’t bring the lacey thing, I am very much, Lord, in your debt. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I would be most grateful for yours. Shall we go shopping for whatever it is that kittens need?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klinger took the offered arm as if he’d done so hundreds of times. When they walked out together, the receptionist shook her head and thought about putting in for a raise. The patients weren’t that bad, but some of the doctors were a few crackerjack boxes shy of a prize… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since they did have tiny lives in their charge (one of which Charles was calling Aurelius in honor of failed stoicism and its attendant awards), they shopped fast and took their dinner to go, eating out of containers while the babies explored, pounced one another, and chased toys across the hardwood. Each turned out to be wearing a cotton bandana made from cute, bright fabric. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never seen you so relaxed,” Klinger told his friend, still quite blown away by the idea of Charles Emerson Winchester III eating with plastic utensils. “Didn’t know you were capable.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I enjoy kittens,” Charles teased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like you needed ‘em.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Major reached for his hand. “Nowhere, I promise you, Maxwell, nearly as much as I needed you!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Late at night, Honoria padded through their shared domicile on silken slippers. All was quiet as she turned the doorknob to her brother’s room. Peering in, she saw her beloved, stubborn brother sleeping contentedly, Klinger in his arms. Tiny balls of fluff studded the headboard, the chair, and even the sleepers themselves! Satisfied that all was again right with the world, she went smilingly up the stairs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>End! </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
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